The Devil You Know
by FritzKebab
Summary: Post-ep for 'Beat the Devil'


_**Author's Note**_: This is a post-ep for 'Beat the Devil.' I haven't forgotten about 'Taken for a Ride,' but I felt compelled to wallow in the delicious angst we saw in 'Beat the Devil.' I don't think I write angst all that well, but hopefully you'll enjoy the story anyway.

**Spoilers:** For 'Beat the Devil'

**Disclaimer**: I don't own 'Lie to Me' or any of the characters portrayed in the show.

The Devil You Know

She hugged her arms tighter around her stomach and curled herself into a smaller ball. Tears streamed down her face despite her efforts to hold them back and she hurt inside in a way she didn't think possible. She tried to put a name to what she was feeling, to intellectualize her emotions so they wouldn't be so overpowering, but it was like swimming upstream against a torrent of negative sentiment. Rage, so strong it made her shake. She wasn't sure who she was madder at - Cal for acting out his death wish – again - or herself for caring as much as she did. Horrifying images of him being tortured flickered through her brain. He'd shrugged it off as if it was just another bad day at the office, but she couldn't be so blasé about it - the thought of his suffering was excruciating to her.

She almost laughed out loud when she realized that she should be used to the thought of losing him by now. Then her tears fell harder when she thought about how much she cared for him. Helen was right. He was obsessive, obnoxious, and driven way past the point of being healthy. Not a good long term bet by anyone's standard. But somehow, over the years, she'd grown to love him, and that thought more than any other cut her to the bone.

She'd always thought of love as a good thing, but with Cal it was merely a road to madness. Nothing good would ever come of it. She could care about him until her heart burst, but she wasn't sure Cal knew how to be the recipient of such a gift. He had a way of turning away from expressions of concern, from people close to him who truly cared. She wasn't sure where this came from but she'd witnessed it over and over again. He was brilliant but so very incapable of maintaining certain basic human connections. Getting even closer to Cal, acknowledging how much she cared for him would only set her up for an even harder fall when he eventually pushed her away like he did all the other women in his life.

So how did that justify her refusal to eat with him? Shame battered her. Cal may have some significant problems dealing with people, but she didn't. A man she cared for deeply had come to her after suffering a terrible amount of abuse and she had rebuffed him. And why? Because she didn't want to get her own feelings hurt. Her stomach clenched into a tight, hard knot. Maybe she wasn't so different from Cal after all. She cried harder.

* * *

He'd walked the streets, stopped in a couple of bars, shot a round or two of pool, and hit at an all night diner for an omelet but nothing worked – he still felt wired, anxious, unable to sit still. He tried not to think but his brain kept whirring away. He was exhausted but couldn't seem t o shut down. Every time he closed his eyes all he could see was the wet towel descending towards his face. He thought again of how it felt to drown, only to wake up and be drowned again. He wondered how long it would be before he'd start to forget that feeling. He wondered if he'd ever be able to forget it. Despondent, he trudged to his car and drove to the only place left to go.

* * *

At first she thought she had imagined the knock on the door. Sniffling, she grabbed a tissue and blew her nose. As she swiped at the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand, the knock came again. Her stomach lurched again – there was only one person who'd knock on her door at midnight and he was the last person on earth she wanted to see right now. She knew that nothing good would come of her opening the door, but she also knew that he wouldn't leave until he'd said whatever it was he'd come to say. She blew her nose one more time, dragged herself off the bed, and went to the front door. She paused for a moment to take a deep breath before swinging open the door.

As she'd expected, there stood Cal Lightman on her porch, head down and hands in pockets. When the door opened, he looked up and was stunned by what he saw on Gillian's face. He'd doubted she'd be happy to see him but he'd never expected her to look so upset. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen and her cheeks were blotchy. Her obvious pain distracted him slightly from his own.

"Bloody hell Foster. You look like I feel."

She stared mutely at him.

It was obvious something had upset her deeply and he strongly suspected that he was the cause of her distress. He softened his tone. "Look, I know it's late and I'm really sorry to bother you but I need… to…" His voice tailed off, unable to articulate exactly what he needed.

"My guest room isn't available for you to stay in, so you'd probably better head home."

The icy chill in her voice was like a slap to his face and his eyes widened in surprise. "I'm not looking for a place to sleep Foster. I need to talk."

She jerked her thumb off to one side and said, "There's a bar two blocks that way. They do a pretty good business – I'm sure you'll be able to find someone to talk to there." Her eyes glittered like ice as she stared him down.

The depth of her anger was suddenly clear, but he didn't have the emotional strength to attempt to placate her. He felt his one chance at relief of his own pain start to slip away.

"Foster, please, I need to talk to **you**." There was a desperate edge in his voice – he was sure she'd hear it but he didn't know if that would be enough to influence her to speak with him.

"What if the last thing in the world I need is to talk to you?"

He was staggered. She was obviously furious at him but he had no idea what would cause her to say something so venomous. But he'd have to figure it out later. Her words had pushed him to the end of his emotional rope.

He clenched and unclenched his fists before running both hands through his hair. "Look. I've had a really, really terrible day. I've been abducted at gunpoint, tortured, and forced to dig my own grave. Will you please throw me a bone!" His voice rose during the last sentence and he shifted uncomfortably, returning her stare with one of his own.

She remembered the strong sense of shame she'd felt earlier and realized she had a chance to atone for her earlier refusal to help him. Still, she knew that letting him in her house would ultimately end up damaging her even more in the long run. He could talk til he was blue in the face but having to listen to the details of his ordeal would be her own special kind of torture. She wouldn't be able to stop caring about him and he wouldn't be able to stop throwing himself in harm's way every chance he got. At best there would be more incidents like this, where she'd worry herself sick about his safety, while he went out and did whatever the hell he pleased without a thought as to how his actions would affect her. At worst he'd be killed. She knew she couldn't tolerate his behavior for much longer without losing her mind.

The picture if she didn't talk to him was almost as bleak. She wouldn't have to be his shrink, but she'd have to acknowledge to herself that she was not a nice person, that she was the sort of person who put her own interests ahead of those she called friends. She'd always thought of herself as a decent woman, and she knew she cared deeply for Cal. Turning him down in his time of need just didn't square with her self-perception.

She was damned if she did, damned if she didn't. She hesitated just a moment before stepping back from the door and motioning Cal inside.

With a sigh of relief, Cal walked into her living room and sat down heavily on an antique leather couch. He was disappointed when she chose a deep leather easy chair on the other side of the coffee table from him. She leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knees, hands clasped tightly in front of her.

"Ok, you need to talk, talk."

Having gained her attention, he found himself reluctant to talk about what had happened to him.

"I'm… not sure what I want to say."

She snorted derisively. "No, of course not."

The maelstrom of negative emotions inside him intensified. He felt a flare of anger he couldn't suppress. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean? What have I done to you to make you so angry with me?"

"Nothing. You haven't done anything to me." He thought he saw a brief flicker of sadness in her expression. "But that's not what you came here to talk about." Her voice had hardened again. "You came here to talk about your 'really, really terrible day' so talk."

"You know what? I think I made a mistake coming here." He laughed harshly. "Another mistake that is. I thought I might find a friend with a sympathetic ear but instead I find a… a…," he sputtered, trying to find a way to express himself, "someone I don't even know who's determined to add insult to injury." His breathing quickened. Trying to calm himself, he got up and began to pace back and forth beside the sofa, all the while looking at Gillian sitting calmly in her chair. There was something about her stillness, her silence that fed his anger and threatened to undo the last shred of his self-control. In that moment he almost hated her.

"You want me to talk, fine, I'll talk. How 'bout this, love?" His question dripped sarcasm. "I can't stop thinking about what happened. All the gory details." He moved closer to her. "D'you know the details, love? Did Reynolds tell you? Hmm? No? Then by all means let me share."

"From the minute I heard his voice, I knew what was coming. I knew exactly what he'd do to me and all I could do was wait for it to happen. I was sure I could handle it, sure that I could get through it, get Walker to implicate himself in those girls' attacks, and go home to a nice scotch and a warm bed. And I did handle it – when he strapped me down, when he got out the towel and covered my face with it, even when the water first started."

Gillian had been staring fixedly at the floor in front of her, but now she risked a glance at his face. His eyes were wide and haunted.

He stopped pacing. "And then I drowned for the first time. And right before I lost consciousness, I thought of Emily." His voice cracked. "And I thought about how she'd grow up without a father." His chest was heaving and she could see him struggling to maintain control. "I was so afraid, afraid I'd lost everything…" He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, tears ran down his cheeks.

He looked directly at Gillian. "He drowned me four more times. And each time everything went black, I was sure I'd never wake up, never see Emily, or you again…" His body seemed to cave in on itself and he began to cry quietly. His shoulders slumped forward and he went down on one knee, unable to stand as all the horror of the day poured out of him.

Gillian sat frozen, sickened by his description of the mistreatment he'd endured. As she watched him cry, her shame returned full force and her own eyes teared up. He'd put not just his life on the line to catch a murderer, but also his sanity. Most men she knew would have broken long before now but Cal had willingly stepped into that abyss to keep other women from falling victim to a predator. He deserved whatever support she could give him, regardless of what that support might cost her.

She moved to stand beside him and leaned over and put her hand gently under his arm. "Cal, stand up." He shakily got to his feet but kept his eyes directed at the floor. "Cal, look at me." Slowly, he raised his eyes to hers. She tenderly stroked the hair at his temples. "You're safe now. You're safe." She pulled him towards her and gently wrapped her arms around him. He clung to her tightly and sobbed. He never saw the single tear that trickled down her cheek.


End file.
